


What You Had, and What You Lost

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave always wakes up before the good stuff can happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Had, and What You Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Anon prompted: _maybe a short fic about karofsky's first unsettling sex dream about kurt [...] or something like that?_ This takes place somewhere post-Theatricality but definitely before Never Been Kissed. Title from "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac. Hurts so good.

It's not fucking fair for things like this to attack when Dave's asleep and can't do anything about it. It's not fair for thoughts like this to take shape the way they do, silvery, slippery, immediately within grasp and then immediately gone – the way dreams are.

He was dreaming about something else.

Dave doesn't dream interesting stuff much. School dreams, mostly.

Not having his schedule. Classrooms relocated, so he can't find pre-calc and spends the whole dream trying to get there. Not having his homework.

Forgetting his locker combination is a recurring dream he has so often it's hard to tell whether it's ever actually happened to him or if he's dreamed it so much it just feels like it's happened and is a possibility that is logical for his brain to seize upon, worry about. Sometimes he dreams he's in the hallway just trying to open his lock, but the combination won't work, so he breaks the locker, knows he's in trouble and gonna get an earful and probably expelled. (It's ridiculous, right?)

Sometimes he's in the locker room and he doesn't have his clothes and can't get his locker open and someone jeers, _Dude, look who has pubes!_ or something like that. He's a fag, he's fat... but mostly, in dreams like that, Dave's got pubes and the whole team's laughing at him for it, like that one time in fifth grade when Hudson pointed them out to everyone. He wakes up so pissed off – _so_ pissed off it becomes real and he slams his locker, gives Hudson a hard time, whatever.

Dreams are like that, you know. They take stuff that's real and leave you with things that feel real, even though they're not real.

Most of Dave's dreams are so repetitive, like memories of school replaying in his head at night even if they're not actual memories of things that really happened. When he was little, he dreamed more specific and unlikely things, like the streets turning into lava but not the sidewalks, getting stuck in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's and knowing there was some kind of drain or abyss at the bottom of the pit that he was going to get sucked into, his dead Aunt Josephine being alive again and for some reason having to share all his food with her. Those kinds of dreams evaporated through his middle school years and got replaced with drudgery and stupid dreams about missing his classes, about his lockers, about discovering he'd missed a bunch of tests and was going to flunk. 

His dad says he just dreams about school, too, and he's been out of school for twenty-something years, but he still dreams about high school. Great.

The couple of times Dave's actually had wet dreams, he couldn't even remember the dreams themselves at all, if he'd even had dreams to spur on his body. It was just black unconsciousness, mostly, and he'd woken up wet and cussed at his pillow because he'd had to find a way to cram his sheets into the wash without his mom noticing and change underwear, and he just wanted to sleep.

But he's had a couple interesting dreams in the interim, between his kiddie dreams and... this dream.

In one of those dreams, he was in the tree house he and his dad built when he was a little kid (mostly his dad; Dave was just in little league then), where his cub scout buddies used to come and hang after school. Sometimes they'd sleep over with him and they'd camp in the tree house with sleeping bags, eating junk food and playing with binoculars like they were spies or posted in some army base, looking out for the enemy. They fell asleep listening to crickets and the wind rustling the leaves. When they woke up it was usually way too early and they kinda resented the sun and birds and weird dewy feeling of everything.

In the dream, he's with Josh Honeycutt, who lived across the street from him till his family moved when Dave was in sixth grade. Josh was a year older than Dave and really popular – ton of friends, the right kind of hair, all the badass video games. But in the dream they're both in elementary school again. They're young, like they were when they played in the tree house. And this is the part that's interesting: for some reason, they're married.

It makes no kind of sense. Dreams don't have to. They just feel real. In the dream, it was just real. They were living in the tree house, which couldn't even fit a table and chairs in real life, but in the dream, it had a kitchen, and Dave knew it was his job to make soup, so he was real worried about making the soup. Yeah, yeah. Soup. And Josh, in his dream, went out and hunted for food with his slingshot, like they lived in the woods and not the Karofskys' back yard. Josh had married him. And Dave knew, he just knew, something good was coming. His mind had saved mental snapshots from elementary school of the slingshot in Josh's back pocket and of his deep summer tan but in the dream, it came up with the idea that Josh never wore a shirt. He didn't have to. He knew Dave liked him not to. It was awesome.

But, as if it had been a nightmare, Dave woke up from that one with his heart thudding in his chest.

For a long moment, in the dusky dawn, he recovered, going through the absent-minded motions of realizing it was a dream and then thinking it was a really weird-ass dream, then thinking further about it and realizing that he'd been happy. He'd been pushed to the edge of something good and then woken up before it could happen. He felt nostalgic for his childhood and piqued from the strangeness, the idiotic random construct of his own mind making him married to and living with the neighbor kid in a tree house. It was frustrating. Dave mostly lost the feeling and the details by the end of the day. Mostly Dave remembers the slingshot and Josh without a shirt and the uneasy fact that they'd been married, for some reason. Maybe there weren't any chicks left in the world or something.

So that was one dream that wasn't like a rote, everyday school dream. Dave dreamed that in eighth grade, like one last visit to the tree house. He hasn't been up in there since.

In ninth grade he dreamed something weird, too, after watching too much Skinemax, probably.

He was in some house that didn't really exist in real life, but he knew it was Azimio's house in the dream. He was with Brittany Pierce. They'd never spoken a word to each other in real life, but she was on the JV Cheerios squad and everybody knew she'd had sex with a ton of guys already; there was even a rumor going around that she liked having her arm pits licked, and if you were willing to do that, she'd give it up to you. In the dream, they were in Azimio's room and she had on her short red Cheerios skirt. He was going to fuck her. This was the perfect place. No one was there yet, though they were on their way; he had to hurry, they needed to get it on already. Azimio pounded on the door and told them to hurry. _Better not be a big ol' virgin next time I see you_.

In the dream, Dave had gotten her in bed. She was being kind of a bitch about it, and he felt like she didn't really want him; he felt bad, like he was doing something wrong, but then she tucked her arms behind her head. It had just been obvious in the dream that it was a part of doing the nasty with her, so Dave licked her pit obediently, unquestioning. But to his shock and delight, they went from smooth and shaved to hairy. That he could feel it on his face and Pierce not only didn't give a flying fuck about it, but liked it – was so sexy.

 _I'm like a dude down there_ , Pierce had said in Dave's dream, somehow both totally nonchalant and overtly bragging.

There were voices outside the room, then, and Dave knew his family was there, too, everyone bustling outside and about to open the door, so again, Dave woke up with a jerk in his bed and stewed back to sleep in a rather frustrated feeling that he hadn't been able to actually bag a notoriously easy lay even in his own dream. Why couldn't he just get to the good stuff?

He'd kinda had a thing for Pierce for about three days after that, till she raised her hand in Bio and asked the teacher to spell DNA, and he saw her pit clearly (hairless, just baby-smooth, clean and slender and girly) and realized she was too fucking slutty and dumb to have a thing for.

Neither of those dreams touch the dream Dave has about Kurt Hummel after tenth grade.

Like, as far as Dave's dreams go, it's basically past eleven.

It's not Dave's fault, though, it's Hummel's. For walking around dressed like such a flaming freak that the image was pretty much burned into the back of Dave's brain, doomed to haunt him probably forever.

Like in his dream about Josh, particular mental pictures form the foundations of the dream – the things that were there before and really linger afterward, unforgettable.

Silver. Hummel's wearing heels; the shape of his calves is curvy, curvier than skinny bitches like Lopez and Pierce's calves are; there's a seam running up the back of them, and his feet cross one in front of the other as he walks like he's some businesswoman in that spaceman-Amadeus getup. There's a weird skirt, kind of. It flashes when his hips cock. And good God, do his hips cock.

This is a school dream. But it's not the same kind of school dream.

Dave is in the hallway with Hummel, walking after him, watching him sashay. They're both with their friends, but Azimio and Hummel's bubble hag are immaterial, as if invisible except for the idea of them, not even in Dave's peripheral vision, really.

 _Fucking freak!_ Dave hurls at Hummel's back.

Pushed against a locker, Hummel cowers, knowing he's gonna get punched, staring at Dave with watery eyes behind one arm protecting his face.

The dream changes tack, then. It just jumps tracks, like when you press "forward" on an iPod and you get the next song.

Dave's not there to punch Ladyface, he's there to help him... fix him. It's decided. Obvious. A truth of the dream. Hummel's his now. He's under Dave's supervision, lives for Dave's guidance, is gonna do whatever Dave says and depend on him to survive school.

It's for his own good. And everyone knows it. There's this feeling coming from the school at large, students and faculty, that this is a good change. There's trust, there's permission. Dave is gonna take care of all this and make everything right. This is the new normal, so it's only approval when people stare at Hummel hanging off Dave's arm, flouncy, swishy, nose in the air, pink-faced.

The Gaga get-up is perfectly understandable; that Hummel's so queer he freaks everyone out is suddenly a non-issue, because Dave says it's fine.

The reel flickers.

Hummel's smiling at him in the hallway. He wants hairspray. Dave obviously lets him have at it – 'course he can look good, 's not like Dave wants him to look bad, even if he looks like a drag queen – and is standing there at Hummel's locker with him, watching him perfect his big cotton candy wig. It seems like it goes on and on in the dream, the haze of spray, the way Hummel beams and competently radiates gay like a silver beacon other fairies would flock to. Then Hummel cozies up to him and says, _Thank you for taking care of me._

It's so sexual, the bend of Hummel's body pressed up against Dave, it's obvious Hummel wants him. Hummel's little ivory face with its bright spots of pink on each cheek tucks into the leather arm of Dave's letterman jacket and Dave eases that arm around him, tucking him in closer to his chest. Even in his dream he can see the happy Jetsons-heel pop.

Something about the hug is bad. It isn't something Dave thought would happen and he wouldn't have gotten Hummel under control like this if he thought it would; he wouldn't have come up with the idea, he wouldn't have agreed to it. But it's flattering, too. The whole school knows how Hummel feels and Dave's the hugest stud, but he seriously doesn't have an interest in anyone else. It's just Hummel and him. No one else gets it.

 _We could go bowling_ , Hummel says.

 _Nah, I can't do that_ , Dave says, and other stuff like that, to get Hummel to understand they can't do what everybody else does.

Or – maybe they can. It has to be that Hummel talks him into it, or tricks him, is smarter than Dave and gets him alone in the equipment closet in the locker room where all the old footballs wait for re-inflating and all the old banners hang between games. There's that familiar feeling of being just barely alone, of being so close to something that Dave can taste it and feel it and knows it already, before it even happens, like he's read ahead or already taken a bite. There's the silver heels and shiny suit with its gay little skirt, and then it's off, easy, shrugged down pale arms. Hummel's a guy all of a sudden, pointy shoulder pads disappearing and leaving him with slim little shoulders, but his silver pants still cling tight in a way that's unnerving, showing off his junk as well as a wrestling jock.

Dave doesn't register anything other than a shocked pleasure.

Hummel's opening Dave's belt. Even in those heels he's a shrimp compared to Dave, but he whispers up into Dave's face and has all the power.

_Trust me, you'll love it._

He's so queer, so fucking queer.

 _I suck off so many jocks_ , Hummel says, _but I really just want you._

 _You didn't even ask me_ , Dave says, kind of pissed.

Hummel says, _I'm gay._

His hand slips into Dave's jeans and he lets out an audible gasp. There's a mental snapshot of baby pink lips parting around the breath and a strong ache at the feel of Hummel's lady fingers grazing over Dave's pubes, scratchy and warm, and Dave wakes up, then, cruelly, in the cusp of realizing that Hummel's caught breathless and stunned and hot over his pubes.

Green numbers glow softly at his bedside: four-forty-two in the morning. His alarm doesn't go off for another couple hours. Around him, everything else is blessedly dark.

Dave scoots himself on his mattress till he's on his stomach, smothering his face in his pillow and his hard dick against the mattress.

He's so caught in the mental jerk of suddenly waking that he can't and doesn't think anything; he's not aware of the sheer detail or the things he'll remember in a day, two days, a month from now, and resent, hate; he just wishes he could get back there, into that gasping moment. Something was about to happen with Hummel. Something serious. Something good.


End file.
